Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Damien
Istand motionless among the pines, the scent of their needles sharp in my nostrils as I watch her. My breath slows to match the rhythm of the forest. Deliberate, patient, and invisible. Luna leads a small doe on a leash across the sanctuary grounds toward the tree line.
Luna.
Even her name feels sacred. I’ve never been a man who believed in fate until the other day when she looked up, those hazel eyes meeting mine for the briefest moment. Something shifted inside me then, a tectonic movement in a soul I’d long believed was fixed and immovable.
Now I can’t stay away.
She doesn’t know I’m here, but something in her posture suggests awareness. A slight tension in her shoulders, the occasional glance toward the shadows where I stand. Instinct, perhaps. Prey animals develop that sense when predators are close. The thought brings a smile to my face.
My little doe.
The nickname feels right on my tongue as I whisper it.
I lift my binoculars to my face, bringing hers into focus.
I’m close enough not to need them, but I want to see her more clearly.
High cheekbones, full lips, and that cascade of blonde hair catching the afternoon light.
She’s beautiful in a way that transcends the physical, radiating a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
What would it be like to be the recipient of such tenderness?
She’s speaking to the animal, her lips moving in gentle encouragement as they approach the forest’s edge about ten yards from my position. I’ve chosen my vantage point carefully, close enough to see her expressions, far enough to remain undetected.
“It’s time, Buttercup,” she says, her voice carrying on the breeze. “It’s time for you to find your family and go home.”
The tender way she speaks to the doe stirs something uncomfortable within me. I’m not accustomed to this… this fascination, or this pull toward another person. In my forty-six years, I’ve perfected the art of detachment. People are a means to an end, an occasional distraction at most.
But Luna Foster is different.
She kneels beside the doe at the edge of the trees, removing the simple halter and running her fingers through its dappled coat.
“You’re all healed up now, but you can always come back if you need me, okay? I’ll be here.”
Something about those words, “I’ll be here,” strikes me. People have never been constant in my life. I’ve preferred it that way. Attachments are vulnerabilities. I’ve eliminated them as methodically as I’ve eliminated those who deserve my particular brand of justice.
Yet, despite not even having met her, I find myself wanting to be a permanent part of her world.
I lower the binoculars, weighed down by this unusual desire.
My pulse races as I remember standing in the darkness outside her bedroom window.
The memory floods back with visceral intensity.
Her silhouette beneath the covers as her hand moved and her hips rocked, her body arching as soft gasps escaped her lips.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
My body responds to the memory, blood rushing southward, my cock hardening in an instant. I shift my stance, reaching down and pressing the heel of my hand against my erection.
This isn’t like me. I don’t fixate on women this way. Sex has always been transactional for me, a biological release with willing partners who know nothing of my true nature. I’ve never needed it to be more.
But with Luna… I want to consume her. To possess her. To show her the darkness that lives inside me and watch her accept it, accept me, rather than run from it.
I wonder if she found my gift on her window this morning?
Luna’s fingers linger on the doe’s coat. The sadness in her expression catches me off guard, mirroring something I’ve felt my entire life but never acknowledged.
A loss that cuts to the core.
“Go on,” she urges the doe. “Be free.”
It hesitates, then takes one tentative step away from her.
Then another. Luna remains still, her body tense.
Only the tremor in her shoulders gives away what the pain of letting go costs her.
But this is what she does. She heals broken creatures and returns them to the wild, resisting the urge to keep them for herself even when she wants to.
My little doe.
The nickname truly does suit her. She’s as gentle as the creature she’s releasing. Delicate, cautious, and pure.
And I am Wolfe. Not just by name, but by nature. The name defines me. The silver wolf mask I wear when I hunt sits in my car, a reminder of what I am.
I chose the symbol when I chose my name.
An homage to the image of a massive gray wolf mid-leap through snow, its amber eyes blazing with primal fury and intelligence.
Those eyes held something untamed and uncompromising.
Something that could never be collared, beaten into submission, or held back by fear or heartless restraint.
And wolves hunt deer. They chase them through forests, relentless in their pursuit until their prey surrenders to exhaustion or fear. The idea of hunting Luna, of watching her run from me only to surrender, fuels another rush of excitement within me, my cock throbbing in sync with my heartbeat.
The doe hesitates again at the forest’s edge, stopping to look back at Luna. She waves at it, like she’s sending a child off to school.
“Don’t forget to visit. And tell your friends this is a safe place.”
I shake my head. Like her wolf, she speaks to it as if it understands complex human language. Yet there’s something in how they both respond to her that makes me wonder.
The fawn finds its courage and bounds away into the deeper forest, disappearing into the dense underbrush. Luna watches it go, her eyes fixed on the wall of green, her shoulders falling. The loss is there, written in every line of her body.
Sadness.
She misses the animal already, despite knowing release was the right choice. This is what I don’t understand. Her capacity to connect and release, to care without possessing.
My own nature runs counter to hers. When I find something of value, I claim it.
One hand rises to wipe at her cheek.
Is she crying?
My chest tightens. Why does her pain affect me? I’ve witnessed countless people in states of emotional and physical distress. It’s often one of the last things they experience, second only to pain, before I deliver judgment for their crimes. But their tears have never reached me.
Hers do.
She stands, brushing dirt from her pants, and turns back toward the sanctuary. For a moment, she pauses, her head tilting as if sensing me again. Her gaze sweeps across the tree line, and I’m certain she’s looking right at me, though the dense foliage makes that impossible.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. The distance between us feels both vast and nonexistent at the same time.
“Hello?” Her voice carries through the trees. “Is someone there?”
Her instincts are remarkable. Another reason she fascinates me. Those who work with animals often develop a heightened awareness, an ability to sense danger or presence that others lack.
“I know you’re out there,” she says a little louder. “If you’re here to harm any animal under my care, you should know I protect what’s mine with whatever is at my disposal.”
Her bravery is as impressive as her capacity for kindness.
After a long moment of silence, she turns away, walking back toward the main sanctuary building. Her hips sway with each confident step.
She represents everything I’m not. Yet something tells me there’s darkness in her too. I’m certain of it. Not like mine, never like mine, but a shadow nonetheless. Perhaps grief or loneliness that she hides beneath her compassionate exterior.
She doesn’t know yet, but we’re connected by something deeper than chance or circumstance.
I retreat further into the trees, allowing myself one last look at her sanctuary before I leave. I have preparations to make for tonight’s hunt.
Tomorrow I’ll return. And the day after. And the day after.
I’ll watch over her, a silent observer from afar, until the time is right to reveal myself.